5 Times Viktor Had To Fight On His Own (And One Time He Didn't)
by BlueBoxInLondon
Summary: Viktor had been fighting his battle on his own his entire life - until a japanese man came into his life. / quite angsty story exploring Viktor's past. (5 1 style)


Hey there! Another angsty Yuri on Ice story from me! Also this is the first time I've tried something in the 5+1 style!

Please leave a comment and tell me what you thought, it'd mean the world to me!

Also see at the end for translations of the Russian expressions!

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 **5 Times Viktor Had To Fight On His Own (And The One Time He Didn't)**

1\. 7 YEARS OLD

There had to be something wrong with him. There must be.

If not then why wouldn't the other children play with him?

Young Viktor found himself on the sidelines once again, watching from afar as the other children ran around, playing, building snowmen and having fun.

He'd proposed making snow angels to them, his cheeks flushed with the cold and his ice blue eyes sparkling at the idea of making something as pretty as an angel, but they had just snickered at him.

"Of course that's something you'd want to do, _Vitya_ ," one of them laughed in his face. "Go away, we don't want to play with you."

Viktor was confused. What was wrong with snow angels? He thought they were pretty cool. But he did as the boys said and left the playground – he didn't want to anger them as they were quite a bit bigger than him.

He continued to watch them play for hours. Standing in the cold, unmoving, made his feet and hands go so cold he couldn't feel them any more but his eyes seemed to be glued to the children running around in the snow and having fun.

He wondered what that felt like.

Viktor had never had someone to play with.

Occasionally they would look at him and when one of them would point at him, Viktor would be delighted, already making his way towards the group.

' _Finally_ ', he thought, ' _now I can show them the game I've thought last week, they'll love it! It's nothing like making snow angels.'_

But his smile slowly faltered as he realised that weren't asking him to join them, they were merely laughing at him.

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked down at the ground. The icy wind carried their laughter back to him and suddenly his cheeks felt hot. His eyes filled with shameful tears and he pressed his lips together with determination.

"What's wrong, _Vitya_?!", he could hear Andrej shout, "have you forgotten how to move?" More laughter. But not the funny kind, no this one was different.

This laughter went straight into his heart – like a dagger – and it _hurt_.

His eyes were brimmed with tears by now, threatening to spill down his cheeks any moment now. Viktor had trouble breathing and without ever lifting his gaze he turned around and ran; he ran as fast his frozen feet would allow it, his heart thumping to the sound of their laughter behind him.

2\. 11 YEARS OLD

One year ago it happened.

Viktor almost couldn't believe it's already been one year.

One whole year since his mother had left him.

 _His mother always told him that she felt like he was different from other boys. One evening while sitting by his bedside, gently stroking his hair, she told him that he had a heart made out of glass._

 _Of course, he didn't understand it at the time, so he asked her what it meant: to have a heart of glass._

" _You must have gotten it from me, моё Золото", she smiled down at him but thinking back now Viktor remembers how incredibly sad her eyes have been. "It means that people have to be very careful in order not to break you, Vitya."_

 _Viktor had looked at her with wide eyes, still not understanding what his mother meant._

 _How could people break him? He wasn't a glass figure, was he?_

"VIKTOR!", he heard his father's shout. His whole body tensed up as he was abruptly brought back to the here and now.

"If you're not here right this instance I'm leaving without you, understood?! I don't have time for stuff like this, stupid boy!"

Viktor realised that he was still holding the bouquet of flowers in his hands.

Carefully, he put them down on his mother's grave before running towards his father, who was already waiting by the car.

"You took too long," his father remarked. "Next time you'll be quicker or I won't take you again."

Viktor pressed his lips together and gave a quick sharp nod.

"It's not like she's going to come back because you stare at her gravestone!"

As Viktor climbed into the car, determined not to react to his father's harsh words, he felt a lonely tear trickling down his cheek.

He quickly wiped it away but it was too late – his father had already seen it.

"Crying again, are we? God, why can't you just be a _man_ , why do you have to be such a пизда?!"

3\. 14 YEARS OLD

It was time to go. He was standing in front of his friends, suitcases packed and his scarf wrapped warmly around his neck, protecting him from the unforgiving Russian winter.

He hugged his friends one last time, squeezing them tightly.

They patted him on the back, laughing shakily. "It's alright, Vitya, come on, this is your dream, isn't it?"

Viktor gave one last squeeze before pulling away and forcing himself to smile.

"You're right! It's going to be okay – thank you for being such wonderful friends! До Свидания."

With that Viktor grabbed his suitcase and turned around, following his new coach Yakov towards the gate, silver ponytail swinging behind him.

He didn't dare to look back. He needed to be strong now and he wasn't sure he could keep from crying if he turned around and faced his old friends and everything that he left behind again.

He felt as if the world came crashing down around him, his few friends were everything to him. They weren't just his friends. They were the family he never had, they were his _home_.

Viktor had always had a hard time making friends and when he finally found them, he'd felt so _happy_.

They were there for him when he felt bad and they accepted him for who he was. It felt like he had finally found somebody who loved him.

But that was all gone now.

Of course it was for the best, he knew that.

If he wanted to become a professional figure skater he needed to train 24/7 from now on and Yakov was the best coach in Russia.

It was for the best, he knew that.

He wanted to win and prove to everyone that he was worth it, he _needed_ to prove that. Leaving his home to train under coach Yakov wasn't a bad thing, in fact it was the best thing he could ever have hoped for!

He'd proven himself worthy enough for Russian's figure skating legend Yakov to coach _him_ , Viktor Nikiforov!

Then why did his heart feel heavy and laden? Why did it feel like losing rather than winning?

With every step Viktor took, he was getting farther away from his home, his _family_ , and he was convinced he could physically feel his heart shattering into tiny little pieces.

4\. 17 YEARS

There he was.

Viktor Nikiforov, 17 years old and already one of the top male figure skaters in the world.

He'd achieved everything he ever dreamed of. He'd proven his _worth_ , he'd shown everyone what he could do – he was strong.

Yet he didn't feel happy.

Perhaps it was because the people that mattered didn't care about him.

Or perhaps it was because he doesn't even really _have_ people who matter.

Of course, there was Yakov, his coach, who was kind of like a father to him.

And there were his rink mates Georgi and Mila – but it wasn't the "real deal".

He spent his days with them, talking and training and laughing but at the end of the day he was alone.

They had their own lives to return to after work.

That what figure skating was to them – a job. But Viktor didn't have a personal life to return to at the end of the day.

When he went home, there would be nobody waiting for him, asking him how practice went or what he wanted to do once he had some time off from training.

The only friends Viktor ever had, he had to leave behind in Moscow. He didn't ever make any other friends after that.

For a long time, he thought that the reason he never had a friend was because there was something wrong with him, that was _flawed_.

But after hearing so many times that _"_ _Viktor Nikiforov was pure perfection"_ , he thought that maybe it wasn't that he was _wrong_ somehow, but rather that he had lost the ability to be close to somebody.

After another exhausting but successful practice day Viktor had come back to hotel room late at night.

It looked exactly the way he left it in the morning, his clothes strewn all over the bed because he couldn't decide what to wear today and his bathroom a slight mess after having to quickly shower and dry his long, voluminous hair before hurrying off to practice.

He sighed and sat down in front of the mirror, ignoring the mess around him. While untying his ponytail he looked at his reflection.

Nothing.

His eyes looked empty and shallow as they stared back at him.

Slowly, Viktor began untangling his hair and combing through the silver strands.

It was the same every day – each day he'd wake up with this big hole of _nothingness_ in his chest and each night he would go to bed feeling nothing at all while at the same time feeling so desperately lost and alone that it physically hurt to breathe.

Perhaps his father was right, perhaps he really was weak.

He would have hated himself for that, had it not been for the fact that he had his mother's heart – her heart of glass.

And he could never hate anything connected to his mother.

He put the brush down and pulled his hair up in a bun.

Tomorrow was another day, whether he liked it or not. Life doesn't care about who it leaves behind, it just goes on and on and on.

Viktor would simply have to man up and try to keep abreast.

He quickly tore his gaze away from the mirror and went to bed, ignoring the way his eyes welled up – Viktor Nikiforov did not cry any more; after all he wasn't weak.

5\. 20 YEARS

Three years had passed and yet, whenever he looked in the mirror he still felt nothing.

His eyes looked as empty and shallow as ever.

He grinned his "winner smile", flashing his white teeth at himself, but his eyes remained hollow.

Anger welled up inside him.

How long was he supposed to go on like this?! It was unbearable!

These feelings that were no feelings – not really – they killed him.

It was like a massive wave of black light-absorbing liquid that had slowly filled him up from the inside until there was nothing left of the real Viktor. Who even was he any more?

Viktor clenched his fist and stared at himself in the reflection. He had been called beautiful by the public so many times he's lost count.

Long silver hair framed his face, falling down over his shoulders onto his back. It looked like pure silk.

His face had distinctive features and his eyes were a mixture of blue and grey, matching the colour of his hair.

But it was weird. He saw himself every day, in the mirror, on posters, on the internet, on television,… yet he didn't recognise himself.

Who was this man staring back at him? Who was he? What did he feel like?

It felt like the walls were slowly getting closer, the black liquid inside of him having reached every corner of his body; he couldn't breathe any more.

He wanted to scream but he couldn't.

It was like he trapped inside this shell of a body, trapped inside the facade that was Viktor Nikiforov.

On an impulse he grabbed the scissors that lay on the dressing table in front of him.

One last glance at the mirror – nothing.

Eyes just as empty as before – no sign of his internal struggle and the agony he was in.

Viktor took a deep breath and did it.

A few cuts later and it was done.

Slowly he opened his eyes again and what he saw startled him for a moment. A new man stared back at him. In his hand he was holding several strands of long, silver hair.

The scissors fell from his hand and he felt like a weight had been lifted.

He couldn't stop looking at his new self in the mirror and suddenly tears began streaming down his face.

What the hell did he do?! How would he ever be able to explain this?!

He couldn't stop crying for hours that night.

The next day, however, there would be no sign of that.

Viktor Nikiforov had cut off all of his hair deliberately to surprise everyone once more, oh what a headline!

1\. 27 YEARS

Quietly, Viktor slipped out of the house and into the night. He didn't want to wake Yuuri, he needed to get as much sleep as he could before the competition tomorrow.

It's been three months since he came to Japan to coach Yuuri Katsuki.

Most of the time, Viktor could avoid thinking about his old life back in Russia.

The moment he'd decided to come to Japan had felt like that time he cut all of his hair off on a whim.

Once he was on the plane he already started to have doubts whether it was the right choice he was making. But then he reminded himself that he had nothing left to lose.

Of course, that might seem different to other people, seeing as how he abandoned his figure skating career seemingly without any reason just to coach some nobody in Japan.

But they were wrong.

First of all, Yuuri Katsuki was no nobody.

And secondly, skating didn't fill the hole in his body any more - It hasn't done for a long time, actually.

But over the years it has only gotten worse.

This emptiness inside of him grew every day and unlike before where it felt like a black liquid was drowning him, it now felt like a black hole was extinguishing him completely, no hope of ever coming back.

It scared Viktor.

Most of the time spent in Japan he tried to forget about it, tried to block the feeling out, and while that usually did work, there were times it did not.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Viktor stopped and looked out at the sea, hands in his coat pockets.

The grand prix finale seemed an awfully long time away if he considered his mental state. He wanted, no he _needed_ , to be strong for Yuuri until the grand prix at the very least but during nights like these he wasn't sure he could be.

He wasn't a strong person after all, was he?

It amused him that Yuuri thought of himself as a weak person. How could he even think that? Compared to himself, Yuuri was ten times as strong.

He was 27 years old yet he felt like life was over for him. There was no fight left in him any more, he was completely devoid of anything but emptiness.

The grand prix finale. That was his goal – he would stay strong until then.

What happened afterwards didn't matter, he didn't care what happened to him, not any more.

But Yuuri needed him to be his coach for the finale and Viktor would be there for him, no matter what – his last hurrah.

A bitter laugh escaped him. His father had been right all along. Everyone had been.

His whole life had been a mess – he was 27 years old, he should know by now what life was all about yet he felt like a lost child.

Viktor's laugh turned into quiet sobs as he stood there staring out at the ocean, the blackness of the water resembling his insides.

"Viktor…?"

He turned around with a start and faced none other than Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri looked at him with wide eyes. "What are you doing here Viktor?! It's the middle of night, we've all been worried!" He stepped closer. "Are those… are you crying? Viktor..?"

Viktor tried his best, he really did. He put on his "winner smile" but he could feel it failing.

It must have looked like a grimace.

"Y-Yuuri...", was all he could say before tears started streaming down his face.

He turned to face the ground, ashamed of his tears, when he suddenly felt strong arms around his body.

Yuuri didn't say anything, he just held Viktor, squeezing him tightly.

Viktor's tears kept coming but after all these years this was the first time that he wasn't fighting alone.

 _моё_ _Золото_ = my gold (Russian pet name, esp. for children)

 _пизда_ = pussy (insulting word for a man who is not strong, brave, or determined)

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